Madness, Love and Mysticism

There was a time when the avant-garde seemed manageable. I don't mean to say\n\ that it's ever ...

There was a time when the avant-garde seemed manageable. I don't mean to say that it's ever been inclusive. I don't even mean to say that you could listen to it. Sure, you could if you wanted to, but you'd risk being labeled "weird" or "academic" by your friends, and surely that wouldn't be worth getting exposed to a few, rare specimens of actual ingenuity. No, by manageable, I mean you knew what it was and where to find it. You knew who was making it, and who was just being noisy. Time was, you could pick up a copy of Tempo and get the straight dope on the straightest dope there was: Edgard Varese, Harry Partch, Charles Ives, Igor Stravinsky, John Cage-- all dead, all out there. It was experimental, but it had its place, neatly tucked away in the pages of arcane journals and the minds of "obscurophiles" everywhere.

Ours is a different world. Not only has the experimental community come to terms with accessibility and shared information, but the world of the living has finally discovered that just because it's new and strange doesn't mean you have to be intimidated. In short, experimental music is more popular than it has ever been. "Yay," right? I mean, when Zappa was inserting subliminal Varese quotes on his LP jackets, no one would have dared dream that one day the French composer might actually outsell old Frank. What harm could a little populism do anyone?

I found the answer as a glanced at Thom Yorke's mug on a copy of The Wire a few weeks ago. As if I have to remind you, this mag is sort of a layman's survey of contemporary experimental music-- be it classical, rock, electronic, or jazz. As monthlies go, it's pretty good, but I was pretty shocked to see the main Radio head there. "Are they experimental now?" I asked myself. Sort of. "Did this issue of The Wire sell more than any other in the past year?" Undoubtedly. And the bittersweet reality of a populist avant-garde almost gave me frostbite.

This is the part where John Zorn becomes of use. To the chagrin of indie snobs and New York art-punks, he was running rampant years ago. Zorn often took the piss out of serious classical composition by writing "game" pieces, wherein the players jumped through all manner of chutes and ladders as renegade soloists, wild cards and other strategic objects. This is a man who used major label money to record tunes from old Spaghetti Westerns, and had the audacity to attempt to place an image of a decapitated human head on one of his record covers (Elektra, in turn, had the audacity to drop him from their lineup-- public acceptance is a bitch).

Musically, Zorn has been through the wringer, and then some. The game pieces comprise most of his early work. He moved from there into the classic "file card" compositions like "Godard" and "Spillane," and then on to his microcosmic Naked City period. If it hadn't become painfully obvious by then, Zorn's subsequent Semitic jazz project Masada made clear that he was not only interested in furthering the avant-garde tradition, but in integrating it into the shared consciousness of cultural awareness. This was real populism without ever actually making "popular" music. So, after you've managed a miracle on par with teaching bears to skate, where do you go?

Madness, Love and Mysticism is Zorn playing roots music. That is, after years of forging his own path (albeit one very informed by an interesting mix of influences), he's coming home, into the arms of Grandpa Messiaen and Uncle Cage. "Le Mômo" (dedicated to artist Antonin Artaud) might serve nicely as the backdrop to a particularly violent and intellectually manipulative domestic dispute. Pianist Stephen Drury and violinist Jennifer Choi duet to some very intense strains, informed not so much by chamber classical as by clinical schizophrenia. There are some lyrical (but not exactly melodic) sections, though it seems Zorn's calm mode is more ambient/cold than stirring/warm. However, the majority of the piece is quite intense, and since I don't know Artaud's work, I can only guess he was prone to fits of fiery inspiration and/or demonic possession. How's that for an opener?

"Untitled" (dedicated to artist Joseph Cornell) is a piece for solo cello, performed by frequent Zorn collaborator Erik Friedlander. This piece is much more low key than the first one, though no less flighty. Parts of it flow like an aggressive stream, while others recall Ennio Morricone-style suspense motives. I don't know Cornell's work either (surprise!), but I'm thinking he may have missed out on Artaud's heat seizures.

For me, the centerpiece of the album is the last track, "Amour Fou" ("Crazy Love"). Zorn has recently put out some sets with dubious bylines such as "music for lovers" or "music for children," but the title seems fairly appropriate on this piece. Zorn scores for violin, cello and piano on music that is some of his most evocative, at least in terms of human emotion (as opposed to film score hyperbole). Jealousy and guilt are big players here-- they're detectable in Drury's eerie opening piano chords, and later, his playing of ultra-spooky arpeggios. There are several chaotic interludes, but the overriding feeling is one of nervous indecision, or perhaps detachment between two particularly eclectic lovers. Leave it to a classical composer to take the task of translating the tension of love literally instead of just forming an emo band.

Diehard Zorn fans may find this album something of a breath of fresh air, if only to combat his recent stale surf-rock or his long line of Masada-branded products. As his classical compositions go, these are some of the most interesting, and it would seem he's slowly beginning to transcend his influences. For newcomers, the album is probably a better place to start investigating Zorn's chamber works than others like Kristallnacht or Redbird (which could scare away the uninitiated due to hurricane intensity or glacier pace, respectively). Personally, I'm going to art school so I can understand what the hell he's talking about.